Winchester 1887 (27 page)

Father and son joined the deputy marshal, but James did not look at Link McCoy. He had killed three men that morning. That would hit him later. And when it did, he would hit back, and hard. Those men would have killed him had he not shot them first. That, he could live with.

“Jackson.” Millard stared curiously at the old Cherokee.

James looked at his father, who asked, “How in the Sam Hill did you get that stagecoach?”

The way Jackson Sixpersons and James Mann had explained things to Judge Parker and U.S. Marshal Crump in the judge's chambers went something like this.

The Cherokee marshal, Robin Gillett, and James Mann had been riding north toward Fort Washita when they saw the Texans traveling hard in that stagecoach. They dismounted, and Sixpersons stood in the center of the road with his shotgun pointed down and held loosely in his left hand. His right hand gripped the six-point star, which he held out and over his head to let the stagecoach driver know that he was a lawman.

The driver and two guards with double-barrel Parkers sat atop the coach. When it stopped, four cattlemen and four guards stepped out, all smelling of whiskey.

Sixpersons explained what was waiting for them at Fort Washita and suggested that they leave the gold, already in a Wells Fargo box inside the coach next to the buckets of whiskey and beer—Texans being Texans—and that the guards ride with him and surprise the McCoy-Maxwell Gang.

The leader of the Texas cattlemen, a man named Willoughby, sneered, cursed, and stamped his high-heeled boots, proclaiming that no Indian was going to suggest anything to him, that for all Willoughby knew it was Jackson Sixpersons who was holding them up, and he had half a mind to have his guards shoot down the lot of them.

Sixpersons managed to convince everyone that he was a federal marshal, but none of the guards or cattlemen were willing to go with him so they stayed at the side of the road to protect the box of gold.

That wasn't exactly the way things went.

What had gone down was that when Willoughby was doing his threatening and stamping and cursing, Sixpersons had rammed the barrel of the Winchester '87 underneath the cattle baron's throat and snapped, “Move, breathe, fart, and I'll blow this big windy's head clean off.”

Willoughby changed his tune and began singing to the other cattlemen, the stage driver, and the guard. “Do as he says. Do as he says. Do as he says.”

The guards were disarmed, as were two of the cattlemen with pocketed pistols, and they were told to drop their pants and grab their ankles. Jackson Sixpersons did leave the gentlemen from Texas with their buckets of beer and whiskey.

“We're comin' with ya!” Robin Gillett jumped inside the stagecoach.

“No, you're not!” Sixpersons cursed when James climbed inside, too. “Get out!”

“No!” the kids said in unison. “Time's wasting!”

“Get out!”

“My pa's with those cutthroats!” James roared. “If you don't want to come, stay with those fools and Robin and I'll get it done ourselves.”

So Jackson Sixpersons crawled up onto the driver's box and drove the stagecoach to Fort Washita, happy his made-up story satisfied the judge and the marshal.

“Amazing,” Judge Parker said. “And what of the money from the bank robbery in Greenville?”

Sixpersons shrugged. “Never found it.”

“Probably spent it,” Crump said.

Jackson Sixpersons had his doubts. He had telegraphed the sheriff in Greenville, asking about that teller, Mike Crawford—the one who had lost his watch (now in the hands of Newton Ah-ha-lo-man-tubbee); the one whom bank president Grover Cleveland had sent to check on that zebra dun that had trotted back to town after the holdup; the same one the bank president had fired, even though Crawford had identified Link McCoy.

Sheriff Whit Marion had replied that Crawford and his family had left town. No one knew where they had gone, although someone seemed to have overheard Crawford mentioning Mexico. The bank had reported a loss of $1,793.67; the gang had allegedly made off with $400.

Sixpersons figured $1,393.67 would replace a gold watch, with plenty of money to spare, but he only shrugged at the marshal's theory.

“Amazing,” Judge Parker said again. “And you killed McCoy, Maxwell, and Bells.”

“Big reward for you, Sixpersons,” Crump added between puffs on his cigar.

“For him.” Sixpersons pointed the eyeglasses he was cleaning at James, who sat uncomfortably in a comfortable leather couch. “James got all of them. Saved my hide doing it, too.”

“Bully for you, kid!” Crump shouted. “There's a lot of money—”

“I'd rather have something else.” James reached into his pocket and pulled out his uncle's badge.

“What?” Judge Parker asked.

“My late uncle's job.”

The judge and marshal looked at one another, at Sixpersons, and finally at James Mann.

“Son”—Parker adopted a fatherly tone—“federal deputy marshals die often, far too often, in the Indian Territory. You should—”

“I want that job, sir.”

Crump set his cigar on an ashtray. “Are you twenty-one years of age, son?”

It had come to that.

James sucked in a deep breath. Was he willing to lie? Suddenly, he knew that he couldn't. He could not, would not, lie. He knew his uncle, good old Jimmy Mann, would have no regrets, no worries, and would lie—had lied—to get his way. But there was too much of his father in him to lie.

He was about to sigh and answer when the door opened and in walked his father.

“Millard Mann!” Judge Parker exclaimed. “It has been a long, long time.”

“That's right, Your Honor.” Millard looked at his son then at Crump. “Sorry to barge in on you.”

“It's no bother at all, Mann.” Crump grinned and picked up his cigar. “Your son here wants to be a lawman. One of my deputies. I'd just asked him if he was twenty-one. But maybe you can answer that for us.”

Millard looked at James, at Sixpersons, and finally at Judge Parker. At last, his gaze landed on Marshal Crump and his posture relaxed. He even smiled and looked back to his son before answering. “Well, George, I reckon I'll always look at James as a ten-year-old. Sometimes younger. Guess that's how I'll see him when he's bringing my grandbabies so I can bounce them on my knee.” He sighed and turned back to Marshal Crump. “But he's all grown up, George. Time Libbie and I faced that. Is he twenty-one?” Millard laughed, and his head nodded. “He's a Mann. Surely a Mann. A Mann full grown.”

 

 

Smoke and steam belched from the locomotive as the three men, Jackson Sixpersons, Millard Mann, and James Mann stood on the platform. Pinned to his new vest, the latter's badge reflected the sunlight.

“The girl get off all right?” Sixpersons asked.

James nodded. “Yes, sir. Back to her home in Lincoln, Nebraska.”

“You see her off, son?” Millard asked with a grin.

James gave his dad a meek smile, and they laughed.

Robin's mother had divorced that drunken fool and was remarried to a sober, pleasant store owner. The marshals had tracked them down, pooled to buy the girl a ticket, and sent her home.

“She'll do fine in Nebraska,” Millard said.

“And it ain't too far away from Fort Smith,” Sixpersons said.

The conductor called out. “All aboard!”

Millard picked up his grip and the scabbard carrying his Winchester One of One Thousand. He stuck the rifle under one arm and extended his hand to his son. “You'll write your mother once a week. Let us know how you're doing. What you're doing. And you'll listen to this ornery old man with bad eyes and do exactly—
exactly
—as he tells you. This Cherokee might not look like much, but he'll keep you alive.” They shook.

James wasn't certain, but he thought he saw tears welling in his pa's eyes. He couldn't be sure, though . . . because of the tears in his own eyes.

“I'm proud of you, son.” Millard cleared his throat.

“I'm proud of you, Pa.”

They released.

The conductor hollered out something else, and Millard took the rifle and hurried for the nearest car.

James and Sixpersons watched him go. They stayed on the platform, watching the train pull out of the station.

Sixpersons turned. “Let's go.”

They left the depot and walked until they reached a saloon at Garrison Avenue. The sign above the batwing doors said T
EXAS
C
ORNER
S
ALOON
.

“This is where the deputy marshals gather,” Sixpersons said.

“We going to have a drink?” James Mann grinned.

“No.” Sixpersons peered inside and frowned. “Katie Crockett runs it. She's not much older than you. We just came here to pick up your horse. I had Flatt bring it down.” He pointed to a brown gelding tied to a hitching post.

James's eyes almost popped out of his skull. He saw the saddle and the Winchester '86 in the scabbard, but it was the horse that he ran to. He rubbed its neck, whispered into the gelding's ear, and turned toward Jackson Sixpersons. “This is”—he wasn't sure he could find the words—“Old Buck. Uncle Jimmy's . . .”

The eyes behind the spectacles revealed no motion. Sixpersons only nodded.

“But . . .”

The old Cherokee finally spoke. “Listen, Crump pays you what some folks might call a salary. Most would call it a pittance. The U.S. marshal does not provide in any way or form clothes, lodging, firearms, weapons, or grub. They will pay for mileage, if it's on official duty, and some minor expenses.” He pointed to the upstairs of the saloon.

“Katie will also give a lawman a room. Cheap. Noisy. Not too comfortable.” The old man's eyes hardened, and he spoke like an angry father. “Understand this, James. That's all Katie's giving.”

James didn't care about that. His thumb jerked to the brown gelding, Old Buck. “But this—”

“Jimmy left it with me when he—” Sixpersons did not finish. He did not have to. “I figure Old Buck belongs to you now.”

James smiled. “Thanks, Jackson.”

“Don't thank me. You just remember what you got told in the judge's chambers the other day. Marshals get killed out here. A lot. You remember that. And if you ever pull some fool stunt like you did when you jumped into that cave to get Link McCoy, I might just kill you myself.”

James's grin widened until the old man reached into his pocket and pulled out some papers. “What are those?”

Cursing, Sixpersons shook his head. “Arrest warrants, you dumb oaf.” He spit and swung into his saddle. “Boy, you got a lot of learning to do. Mount up.”

James grabbed the reins, swung into the saddle, and backed Old Buck onto the street.

“Ever been in the Winding Stair Mountains?” Sixpersons asked.

“No, sir.” James wet his lips.

“We'll meet Flatt and Mallory and another—Riley Monaco is his name, about as worthless as the other two combined—across the river. Try not to get yourself killed before you write your first letter to your ma. You pa would never let me hear the end of it.”

It was the most James had ever heard the old Cherokee speak in one conversation.

They rode down Garrison Avenue, in a sight that would soon become familiar to the residents of Fort Smith, Arkansas—the long-haired old Indian on a paint horse carrying a Winchester Model 1887 lever-action twelve-gauge shotgun. And a younger deputy named James Mann, riding a brown gelding and armed with a Winchester Model 1886 rifle in .50-100-450 caliber.